


A Prayer in Nude

by Radiolock, thelittledetective (bittersweetdistractor)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adultery, Alternate Universe, Angst, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Case Fic, Domestic, Drama, Dreams, Established Relationship, Friendship/Love, Gen, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Serial Killers, Sexual Content, Sherlock AU, Sherlock Holmes on the Asexuality Spectrum, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-29 01:41:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolock/pseuds/Radiolock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersweetdistractor/pseuds/thelittledetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wishes he could get closer to Sherlock, but knows it's impossible. Meanwhile, a depraved child killer is stalking the streets of London. When Sherlock makes a startling decision, he is left to face the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was another late night. Late. What the hell constituted itself as late anymore, once one dedicates their nights to Sherlock? John turned in his bed, pushing his pillow firmer against his neck. The digital clock, past the unnaturally still head and shoulders of his catatonic bedfellow, shined 3:16 AM. 

Sherlock didn’t even seem to breathe when he slept. It was as if he could truly shut everything inside him- like a machine. John closed his eyes again and pushed his ear closer to the pillow. Shit. The room was too quiet. Sherlock had attempted to fix that problem before by buying an air purifier (not that neither of them were afraid that by some freak accident one of Sherlock’s experimental chemicals would randomly seep through the vents and kill them both in their sleep) but just so it’d provide some noise for John. It wasn’t on tonight. On account of it breaking. From an experiment. About the purity of the flat’s air.

John was used to noise. He would never admit it, at least, not out loud, but he even liked noise; his body had adjusted to the masculine growls and laughter that surrounded his bunks every night back in Afghanistan. He liked the bomb shells, the firing, the itch in his ears followed by a hypnotic ring that meant he was still alive. He liked remembering what it felt to be alive.

The bed shifted and John jumped - memories of sand dunes and dust-filled cities fluttering his heartbeat faster than normal. Sherlock turned over and faced him, eyelids heavily shut as his brilliant mind continued to float in deep sleep. 

John sighed. His eyes couldn’t help study Sherlock’s face whenever it presented itself this way; completely open and unguarded...peaceful. It amazed John how no dark rings marred the skin under Sherlock’s eyes. His cheekbones were still as prominent as ever, but somehow softer, covered by a pale blanket of skin falling down to his nose and lips. John blinked and focused on the face in front of him. Narrow, sharp nose. Almost birdlike...but somehow smooth. Cream. Soft. 

You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it.

John clenched his jaw. In the past thirty-five years, how many things did he truly miss? Well, for one thing, he did miss home. His first home. Maybe even his real home. His missed the old Harry, the sun-warmed Saturday mornings with her and mum, watching telly and fighting over the remote. He missed his uni mates and the optimism they once shared, though he’d never admit it to Mike and the boys. And he did miss the war zone. Not just the noises, the people. Their need for him.

He missed having them need. People needing him. He sometimes wondered even if Sherlock truly needed him. Or if he had, if his gigantic ego would ever let him admit it.

John did, in fact, miss many things. Even the little ones. The things Sherlock would call dull and unnecessary. The feeling of lips. Touch. Close proximity. Bare affection. 

John kept a limited catalogue of the women he had been with in the past and how they had felt against him, his first kisses, every word they’d sigh to him, and replay it on days like this. Well, not much of this day in particular, but period of time. He was frustrated.

He took another breath and dared to inch closer to the sleeping form next to him. John’s eyes roamed now to the wide shoulder jutting above the duvet and lifting in time with Sherlock’s shallow breaths. John was frustrated. But he really didn’t want to be. Oh god, he hated himself for it.

He hated himself for the heat building inside, simply by looking at Sherlock’s body and face. He hated that he had to miss things. Dull and unnecessary things. They truly were, weren’t they? Unnecessary. Un-bloody-necessary, Watson.

John relaxed his jaw and took another breath. He had to remember that Sherlock was already his; that milestone was reached. The world’s only consulting detective had accepted John as someone important enough be sleeping next to on this very night and to wake with in the following morning. He found John important in general. God knows why.

John actually had Sherlock, and yet there always had to be more, didn’t there? The heat was relentless. The needs, the things he missed. John wanted to touch him. He wanted to know what the mouth that sprouted so many clever deductions, insults, and sometimes the most human things would feel like on his. Taste like. What would Sherlock look like kiss-swollen? Would he be happy?

Or what would his skin feel like if John’s fingers had the courage to linger just a few seconds more? Or minutes? How would it feel to spent hours just holding Sherlock Holmes?

Would Sherlock ever even let that happen?

John’s hand slipped out from under the pillow pressured against his head. What if at this moment, in this silent room, with Sherlock at his most unguarded state, John could just reach and...?

Sherlock shifted suddenly, a move that barely startled John but jolted Sherlock out of whatever deep state of sleep he’d been in. He slowly opened his eyes, grey-green meeting blue.

John quickly retracted his hand, “Sherlock! Jesus!”

Sherlock rubbed at his face, “What time is it?”

John looked past him to the clock, “Well, it’s about 3:47 now...” His heart continued to hammer.

“NO! I’m late!” Sherlock jumped out of bed, tripping on the bedside post but managing to fall back into step as he rushed out of the bedroom, grabbing his blue dressing gown in the process. 

“Wait, what?! Sherlock!” John scrambled himself to sit upright, covering his eyes to the blinding light Sherlock turned on down the hallway as he ran. He slid his legs off the mattress and pushed himself up, walking quickly to keep up with the lunatic, “Sherlock! What the hell are you on about?”

“It’s fine, it doesn’t pertain to you, go back to bed. I’ve an experiment that needed to be checked at three a.m. precisely.”

John blinked incredulously, “At three... three a.m?! What... who places things to check at three a.m.? Especially right after a case?” He rubbed his temples as he entered the dim living room, the light still a bit much for the eyes. “Why can’t you just accept the reality that even people like you need sleep?!”

“As you know rather well, I am what you would call ‘a night owl,’ or rather, traditional sleeping schedules have little to no sway on me; therefore, what you’re saying is that I need my sleep during the night but, in reality, I do not.”

“Just...” John looked over at the catastrophe Sherlock had splayed on his desk. He walked to his side and pointed, “What is this all about then?”

“If I told you, would you really understand or even want to understand?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows and started flipping through a rather large pile of papers.

“Try me. You know I’m still not as stupid as you’ve been making me out to be. And I am interested in the... things you do,” John timidly fingered through a stack nearby, “whatever they are half of the time.”

Sherlock gave a small smile, “I’m measuring the staining and splattering of blood on various materials, including but not limited to wood, metals, paper, plastic, etc, over three-hour intervals, and if different blood types stain differently, and before you say it, no, this is not what I did last week.”

“Well thank bloody god for that, but...” John suddenly sighed, “I don’t see any materials here. Do I want to see the kitchen at the moment?”

Sherlock paused for a moment, considering, “No, probably not. Don’t look in the oven or the refrigerator, either, temperature is one of the variables I’m testing.”

“One day, I’m just going to buy you a bloody lab that you can ruin whenever you’d like. The poor kitchen,” John rubbed his eyes again. The food. Shit, he just got the shopping yesterday! “Wait, so are you telling me we have nothing edible at the moment because of this...thing you decided up suddenly?”

“...Yes. Except I think there might be some of those...cardboard crunchy things, the ones in boxes, what are those called again? And maybe some beans? I don’t know, it’s not important!”

John’s face softened as he bit back a laugh, “I don’t think a couple of granola bars and beans can constitute as breakfast tomorrow, or er...tonight..”

“Ah, granola bars! Actually, I’ve heard that those are a breakfast item. However, yes, I can see your point,” Sherlock suddenly frowned, “What do you mean, tonight? You need to go to sleep!”

“Oh no, you won’t get off the hook switching roles!” 

“I’m not switching anything! I’m perfectly aware that you’re...a bit disappointed in my food habits? But you do need to go to sleep. It’s important...for your...health.”

“Oh, your compassion is killing me, Sherlock.” John tried to hold his smirk. 

Sherlock threw his hands up, “Well, apparently since you won’t leave me alone and I can’t perform my experiments without your disapproval hanging over me, perhaps we should go and get...something to...eat,” he pronounced the last word distastefully. Food was so dull.

John let himself smile fully this time. He liked that Sherlock had been trying more, actually attempting something other than his usually tyrannical air between the two of them. He nodded, “That’d be nice.” 

“Aren’t most food eating places closed at this time?”

“Restaurants. And... that’s true. Maybe you could impress me with your lock picking and open the bakery downstairs?” 

“John, you know as well as I do that they don’t bake things ‘til the morning. Hm...” Sherlock reached into his dressing gown and pulled out his phone, scrolling through and quickly typing a message, “I think I can arrange something, however.”

John moved closer to see the screen, “What are you thinking?”

“I rather believe the question is, what are you in the mood for?”

John looked up at gray eyes reflecting the screen’s light, “I dunno. I’ve never really had a preference with breakfast.”

“Is that what we’re calling it, at four in the morning? Alright,” Sherlock typed another message, and looked up at John, “Are you sure you’re not too tired?”

John smiled wider, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

The phone dinged. John mentally thanked the gods for never having to hear that awful ring tone of the god awful woman playing through their flat ever again. 57 times were enough.

“It looks like that pie breakfast place round the corner is open, or rather, opening for us,” Sherlock smirked, “That bit about the affair seemed to have worked.”

“It’s always either you’ve saved someone’s cat or know who they’re sleeping with. You and your mysterious ways,” John touched his arm automatically.

Sherlock flinched for half a second, enough for John to pull away quickly. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, “I’m going to get dressed and,” he paused, looking down at John’s clothes, “you can...” he trailed off, shrugged, and dashed back to his - no, their - bedroom.

John watched him go, pulling a straight face as Sherlock analyzed him for a brief moment and lost track of his thoughts. His eyes fell back to the piles of papers on the desk. His fingers touched them briefly; parts of Sherlock and maybe the only things John could feel without this stinging pain of rejection. He shouldn’t have done that. Bloody morning buzz, John hadn’t thought at that moment. He could feel the cement building up in his stomach as he finally followed Sherlock’s path to the bedroom to change his own clothes.

Sherlock quickly slid on a stark white dress shirt as John entered the room. He watched John carefully through the mirror. Why, why did he have to be so disgusted by all sensations of touch? John had only patted his arm for an instant, and yet he’d felt the need to recoil so quickly. It seemed unfair to ask so much of John and give nothing in return, but that’s what John had signed up for, wasn’t it? From the first day in St. Bart’s to the day that they both had decided it was time to move their relationship (if it could even be called that) to the next step (which really wasn’t so different from the first or second or third steps), Sherlock had never promised anything. Or had he? In forming a relationship - an intimate, deep relationship - did that automatically mean physical contact? Intimacy had never been one of Sherlock’s strong suits. Neither had relationships, or sex, or really...anything to do with feelings and urges.

John turned from Sherlock’s view as he pulled a clean button up from a dresser and took off his shirt, exchanging them quickly over his body. Why the hell did John always have to do this? Ruin things because of his urge to be affectionate. How he couldn’t stand to stare at the man he loved long enough without wanting to crop though his hair, pat his back, even rest his hands on his shoulder. Why was it such a difficult task? It was how many people felt, wasn’t it? We are all wired to touch, to physically need to connect to the person we’ve connected to in any way- spiritually, sexually, and in Sherlock’s case, intellectually. But still...Sherlock was perfect in every sense of the word, he... was truly everything... John’s head stammered. He should be satisfied with what Sherlock managed to give him as a person, as his boyfriend and best friend. He should be. John pulled his jeans from another drawer and slid into the bathroom, closing the door with a light click to avoid concern being raised between them.

Sherlock sat on the bed, fully dressed, waiting for John to come out of the bathroom. They’d changed together before, before they had decided to enter a relationship, but for some reason John thought it was different now. It wasn’t like Sherlock was afraid of John’s body - he’d seen it plenty of times - but somehow, things weren’t the same. That was why Sherlock had hesitated so much when John had brought up this ‘relationship’ business. Everything always changed. 

John zipped up his trousers and looked at his face in the mirror for a moment, finger on the light switch. It seemed like the drowsiness left his features though his eyes had a bit of red and puffiness underneath them. He tried to smile at himself. Calm down, it’s alright. John’s face hardened and he gave himself a brief nod. You have what you’ve always wanted, and nothing’s lost yet. Keep it that way, Watson. He clicked the light off and opened the door to Sherlock’s eyes already on him from the bed. John made another grin, “Ready to go?” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the tension in John’s face and posture, “Yes, the owner’s waiting for us.”

“Alright then,” John said no more, already heading out of the door to the coat rack in the living room. 

Sherlock followed quickly, pulling on his long coat and tying his favorite scarf.

John threw his own jacket over and fished his leather gloves from his pockets before bracing the doorknob to the stairway and turning. “Remember to be quiet, I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be too keen on baking us biscuits if we wake her at this hour.”

Snorting, Sherlock quietly stalked out the front door.

John turned to him when they exited to the street. The sky was still surprisingly dark. Sunrise would come in another.. John looked at his phone, half an hour or so? How the hell would they get a cab? 

Sherlock just kept walking; the shop was close enough that calling a cab would only be a hassle. Besides, it wasn’t too cold, but winter was quickly setting upon London. He exhaled, watching his breath in the early morning air, and looked up at the bedrooms and offices in the buildings they were passing, “Affair, unhappy marriage, no children but she wants them, he pretends not to notice,” he said, pointing at one dimly lit room.

John did a light jog to catch up, giving Sherlock a breathy laugh as he began dissecting the windows hovering above them, “You know, people always ask me when will I tell them the secret to how you do these things. I fear I’ll still be disappointing them even at my deathbed.”

“I simply observe,” Sherlock pointed to another window, one much closer to them, “his father recently passed and left a lump sum on the condition that he’ll marry his girlfriend - no, boyfriend, apparently - but he’s not sure about their relationship since the boyfriend is a habitual drug abuser and alcoholic, along with being a manic-depressive. All the signs are there, John, but most people look past them.”

John just laughed again and shook his head, muttering, “Brilliant,” under his breath and keeping in step with Sherlock until they reached the restaurant's doors illuminated by a faint light coming from the inside. He pulled one open, holding it for Sherlock as he scanned the inside. Jesus Christ. What kind of friends did Sherlock have to manage to get reservations at places like this at four-something-in-sodding-morning?

Sherlock smiled indulgently at the disbelief on John’s face as he entered the restaurant, “The owner owes me for not revealing his long-term affair with his wife’s sister. Why so many people want to enter extramarital affairs is something I shall never know. It only breeds complications.”

John took a seat in the booth they were ushered into by the restaurant owner, who was giddily focusing more on Sherlock than him. He looked at the menu for a few seconds, “Maybe it’s just because they’re unhappy but can’t find a way to live without their partners," escaped from John’s lips automatically. 

Sherlock’s eyebrows drew together for a split second before smoothing out. He said something in French to the owner before asking John what he wanted.

“Um, whatever this is?” John pointed to a picture in the menu and smiled embarrassingly. 

“Il aura un crêpe,” said Sherlock, in an impeccable accent, “avec des fraises. Apporter un café noir pour moi.”

The owner nodded enthusiastically and left the table. John quirked an eyebrow, “You never cease to amaze, huh?”

“I suppose not,” said Sherlock, “If they’re truly unhappy, then how can they live with their partners?”

Oh, back to that? John’s smile fainted. His fingers traced the utensils on his napkin, “Well, I suppose, they don’t believe their unhappiness is really worth leaving.” 

“That...doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock tried to comprehend John’s statement, “It’s unhappiness, isn’t it? How is that not worth leaving? I thought being happy was what people lived for!”

“Is that what you live for?” John deflected.

“I suppose in my own way of being ‘happy,’ whatever that means, yes. I do what I please. Isn’t that how most would define happiness? And that’s hardly the point anyway.”

“What do you mean?” John folded a corner of his napkin.

“John, what is wrong with you?” Sherlock stared at the man sitting across from him, “You’re acting bizarrely.”

“It’s four in the morning, what do you expect?” John laughed.

Sherlock stared intently for another second before laughing with him. He loved when John laughed; it brightened up the whole room. 

“You and your philosophical, early morning conversations,” John added.

“You’re the philosophical one, not me! I can’t begin to comprehend why you want to think of what-if scenarios instead of focusing on the present situations!”

John giggled again, “Because everyone wants to know what it would be like if something were to be different, even if it were a small aspect of their life. It’s nice to get out of the reality of things from time to time.” The cement in his stomach suddenly returned. 

“Hm. Or they could simply change the situation that they’re in,” Sherlock watched as John’s happy expression faded away. 

Not if they can’t stand to let it go. John realized his smile was gone and poorly attempted a return, but he knew it was too late. Sherlock already saw. He always did. “I mean, with me and Harry... what-ifs came in handy a lot.” 

Sherlock simply looked at him.

“Um, you know already. Her alcoholism. Waking up with her banging on my flat door with a half-empty bottle of god knows. Sitting up holding a shivering body while you pat her and tell her it’s okay when you know it isn’t.”

Sympathy would no doubt elicit the true response to what was bothering him, so Sherlock blinked and then softly said, “Somehow, I don’t think that’s what you meant, John.” 

John’s chest tightened. His fingers stilled on the napkin, “I’ve just always felt it was nice to escape reality every once in awhile. Always have. Life never really has handed me any breaks, so I...tend to make my own.” He kicked himself for using present tense at the end.

“Tend. You. Tend. To make your own. So, you still actively fantasize about escaping the reality. Don’t keep playing the victim, John, it doesn’t suit you,” with that, Sherlock took out his phone, wrapped his coat tighter around him, and put his feet up on the seat, effectively blocking John out.

The owner came back happily with Sherlock’s coffee and John’s meal. He didn’t seem to notice the atmosphere, smiling obviously at the couple and leaving their presence again. John couldn’t look down at his plate. Couldn’t move his arms. “Sherlock, that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh, that’s not what you meant? Really? Because I recall that that’s definitely what you said. And it’s not like this is new,” he practically spat the last word. The coffee cup rattled.

The cement in John seemed to start to constrict his lungs. Heat reached his ears, “Don’t you even start. You have no idea exactly what I meant from that short blurb of a statement, okay? It’s not you, or us, or whatever you’d like to label it as. You know I couldn’t want more,” John pushed his plate to the side and leaned forward. He hushed his words, “I love you, okay? I always have and this, having you in my life is beyond anything else I could have ever wished for. But please, stop this. My reality does not equal our relationship in any way. You know there’s plenty room for improvement with me.”

Sherlock didn’t move for a second, and then slowly put down his feet, making sure to not look at John, “Why do you keep doing this to me, then? It’s not even you but the idea of a relationship, isn’t it? And we are in a relationship,” he met John’s deep blue eyes, “and I don’t want that to change. I don’t feel isolated around you, like I do with everyone else, but now...”

“What are you talking about?” John’s brow creased.

“You know perfectly well, I don’t think I need to repeat myself. Something is going on in your head and you won’t tell me and it’s so aggravating, John! I can’t deduce everything you’re thinking, no matter how hard I seem to try!”

John’s eyes fell to the table. Please don’t, Sherlock. Please... he looked back up at him. Lips tight, John breathed, “I don’t want you to worry about it. You worry about enough things. I can... I want to sort it out myself. It’s not worth talking about.”

Sherlock looked at John for a long time, “Fine. But if it is important and it interferes, then I will find out, and we will have to deal with it.”

John nodded, “Alright. If the time comes, then.” 

Sherlock exhaled deeply and put two sugars in his coffee. It would be a long morning.


	2. Chapter 2

The tremors rolled off John’s body when he woke. Three episodes in a week. He knew that wasn’t good. Pushing the covers off his feet, John got out of bed before noticing Sherlock’s side was already vacant. John stretched and concentrated on any noises he heard downstairs. No violin playing, no distinct rustling, or anything smashing- maybe he needed to think.

Maybe John was another meaningless distraction to his brainwork. Again. John sighed, redirecting his focus to his shocked body. Another argument with Sherlock happened the night before. Well, John says argument, but most of the things he wanted to say remained quiet and away from Sherlock in his mind. The only place that John felt Sherlock didn’t have complete access to, and wondered if Sherlock even cared to travel inside. Boring, naive John Watson.

John grabbed his towel before heading downstairs. Just as he predicted, Sherlock was lying supine on the sofa with his fingers steepled and dressing gown pooling underneath him. Probably already deleted the night before, the words he said- all so ordinary and meaningless.

John shifted, “...Morning.” 

“Hello.”

“Have a good sleep then? After last night and all.” John settled into his armchair.

“Hm? Oh. No, I don’t...No, I didn’t sleep much,” Sherlock faced towards John expectantly.

John sighed, “Listen, obviously you don’t remember anything that happened yesterday, but let me refresh you: I’m apparently an idiot like everyone else for spending time with Mike instead of going with you to the hospital?”

“Yes. As always. Anything else? If you’re being an idiot then I’m going to tell you that you are so you don’t repeat the same mistake.”

“Spending time with people other than you is a mistake?” John clenched his jaw.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “No, but being an idiot about it by not informing me and acting ridiculous about it when I get upset is. But it’s perfectly alright, I don’t care.”  
Are you serious? Part of John’s mind began to imagine himself standing up and leaving the room. He was sure that he was in the right. Other people would say so. But then again those were ‘other people’ and this was Sherlock Holmes. “It’s like you always have to make measuring systems out of everything. I’m smart, I’m not smart- all based on little things I do everyday. I told you last night about Mike. He’s a friend of both of us, and I’ve spent time with him before. Nothing about me reacting angrily to you insulting me is ‘ridiculous’, Sherlock!”

Sherlock huffed, “Once again, I do not care who you choose to spend time with, and I’m sorry for ever bringing anything up in the first place. I don’t know what else you would like me to say.”

John looked away from Sherlock and muttered, “You’re lying when you say you don’t care...”

Sherlock looked up to respond, but a loud vibrating noise startled both of them. Sherlock answered his phone quickly, “Yes. Really? That’s perfect! No, no, stay there, I’ll be out shortly. Wait a minute, is Anderson there? No, I don’t wish to see him, don’t be an idiot! No. Do not move it, I need to see everything exactly as it is!” 

Sherlock bounced up, throwing his phone onto the couch, and dashed to his room, “John! There’s been another body! This one’s much closer!”

Sighing, John stomped to the bedroom and started pulling out clothes. Sherlock was already almost finished dressing, as usual, and hovered cautiously around the dresser until John finished.

***  
“Shit,” John whispered under his breath at the body. A child. It had been another child. He felt the anger harbored from the morning drain from him. It was the fourth victim, yet John felt unsure if he’d ever be used to the sight. In warzones, bodies had been so familiar. Adults, mature bodies. Some of them friends, but bodies that had seen their time at least. John felt none of the bodies there quite register. He wondered what that said about him.

Sherlock was dancing around the corpse, flitting to and fro, rattling off deductions, “Check for missing children, this one’s been gone only a short while, judging by the shoelaces. Allergies, evidently, possibly to an animal of some sort. Parents divorced, no doubt lived with her mother.” He stopped next to the small, bloodstained neck that had once held a head and looked around, “Is no one taking notes?!”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and pulled out a notebook, “Yes, yes, continue. I think I’ve been in the business long enough to remember what you tell me though, Sherlock.”

“Eyewitness memory is terrifyingly inaccurate,” Sherlock flounced over to John, “Cause of death, Doctor?”

John treaded to the body gingerly, “Erm. Asphyxiation? Hard to tell, with...you know, but it's probably the same as the others.”

Sherlock smiled, “Anything else? Smell anything...unusual?”

John sniffed the air around the corpse tentatively, “It smells...like almonds.”

Sherlock stood and swirled around, “There you have it, Lestrade! Cyanide, just like the others," he flashed John a smile," The killer obviously has quite a large cyanide supply. Same position, same cause of death - that’s four now!”

“Why would someone need four heads in such a short time span?” Lestrade rubbed at his eyes.

“Maybe they were on a deadline,” piped up Anderson from behind John. Sherlock steadfastly ignored him.

***  
“So, what’s it like?” Harry smiled behind her glass.

John smiled at himself, snatching the cup from his sister and pouring it down her sink, “You promised you’d get rid of all of it.”

“Oi, I’ve been clean for a week!” Harry smacked his shoulder.

“And that’s very good, but I’ve yet to find any self-help programs encourage using more alcohol as a reward system.”

Harry sighed, taking a carton of orange juice instead from the fridge, “Bastard. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question.”

“Hm?”

“What’s it like?”

John lifted a brow, “What’s what like?”

“You know. The brooding detective. Batman. Whatever the hell he likes to be called. Nail him yet?”  
John almost dropped the dishes he was cleaning into the sink, “Harry!”

“Oh please, it’s an honest question! You can tell me,” Harry laughed. “I promise I won’t blab about any secret kinks you weirdos may have.”

John felt his face heat up. This was not the time or the right person to be speaking to about this. Though, to be speaking about Sherlock as someone... someone more than a friend now was interesting. Nice even. If John had to choose his perks with his relationship, simply being able to mention it- that his boyfriend was the freak, genius, legend Sherlock Holmes- was definitely one of them. It was a privilege, he’d admit.

He scrubbed the plate in his hands harder. “It’s not an honest question. It’s a bloody intrusive question and you know it, Harry,” he smirked, “I could ask you the same about Jennifer, but I’m a respectful person.”

A wet dish towel whacked John’s head, “Prat! You’re hiding something from me, and when I figure it out, I’ll post it all over your stupid blog!”

John laughed as he listened to Harry’s heavy stomps leave the kitchen, “Looking forward to it, love.”

*****

Sherlock lay on the long sofa with his head on John’s right arm (bicep, to be precise), waiting for something interesting to happen. Maybe Lestrade would call soon, or there’d be another murder, or someone next door would die, in mysterious and fascinating circumstances. 

“I still can’t believe you decided to grow green mold in our bathtub, Sherlock. Honestly,” John looked over at him. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied absentmindedly, “It’s for an experiment. I never knew you to be quite so squeamish.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not just only me who’d be squeamish. I mean, first it’s the kitchen, now the bathroom, what’s next for you? Our bed?”

“Maybe. If it’s the right environment,” he smiled lazily, “Not to worry, it isn’t poisonous. Well, it wasn’t last time I checked.”

“Well that’s a small miracle,” John turned and smiled back, “Do you think Mrs. Hudson’s here? Usually she’d be up with tea by now. She seems so happy now, ever since we...you know.”

“She’s with her sister, don’t you remember? She won’t be home until tomorrow morning. Which means no tea or biscuits for us, unfortunately,” Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, “Hmph. I suppose. Not that I would know.”  
John smirked at that, “I thought you were all-knowing?”

“Oh, aren’t we particularly witty today?”

“I try.” John shifted in place, “It’s getting late.” He stopped talking there. Was he really going to try this again, and now? 

“I’m not tired.”

Shit, John. Just stop what you’re doing. “Well, that’s good. I guess,” John looked away. “I’m...glad.” 

“Look, John. You...you know that I can’t...”

John tensed, “Oh! No, I didn’t mean...”

“Alright, fine, I just. Wanted to make sure that you understand. Because...well.”

“What is it?”

Sherlock moved away, curling into the other end of the sofa, and said quietly, “I just don’t think that you quite understand.”

“Understand what, Sherlock?” John turned towards him, the space around him suddenly feeling empty. He didn’t mean to drive Sherlock away again. Damn it, Watson.

“My asexuality,” Sherlock paused for a moment, reconsidering, “Never mind. I don’t know where I was planning to go with this.”

“No, stop this. Sherlock, just tell me what is wrong. What am I doing that’s wrong? If I don’t get something, explain it to me.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise, “It seems to me that, even though you act like you agree or understand, that you really don’t quite get it. You don’t understand how I ‘feel’ or how I am or anything. And I don’t think you ever will.”

John sighed and closed his eyes, “Not if you don’t explain anything to me. At least try me, I’m not as much as an idiot as you think I am. I know I’ll never be your equal, but could you for once at least try to let me in?!”

“I don’t enjoy being touched, I still think it’s strange,” Sherlock tossed his head back, “I just don’t believe that sexual relations are necessary or even enjoyable for a relationship, but the way you keep acting about it, it seems as though you think they are necessary for us to work.”

John looked at him, choosing his words carefully, “I... don’t think it’s the only way for us to work, Sherlock, I just... I’m still getting used to being in a relationship like this. I’m not ashamed of it, but it’s hard sometimes to tell people that I haven’t even kissed you yet and it’s been almost three months now.”

“Why do you find it important to tell others?! They aren’t the ones living your life. But..unless. Unless you want to kiss me.”

John’s heart jumped. “Um...I- I do.”

“Then we’ve made ourselves into a conundrum. I don’t want to kiss you.”

John blinked, “Oh.”

“It’s not your fault. I just...I don’t find the thought appealing. With anyone.”

“Ah. Well. I understand. It’s okay.” John rubbed his hands on his jeans, “I suppose you’d like to go to bed now?”

“You can have sex with other people,” Sherlock murmured.

John’s eyes flicked back up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! What will happen to our heroes? Should have a chapter up by next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of our tags and the mature rating come into play in this chapter.

What was this thing John had gotten himself into? He called it a break, a breath of fresh air, a time to remember the sea of other people in his life that weren’t Sherlock. Greg had called and invited him to a small holiday party for new cadets. It was something that was meant to be relaxing, something that would temporarily keep John safe from the boiling waters that was his current relationship. John told Sherlock that he’d be going to the event right after his work shift, as courtesy, but he knew that the detective didn’t care.

Stopping by the flat briefly to change clothes before heading to the party, John found Sherlock at his microscope in the kitchen. Silent. Analyzing. _No hello, then?_ John wasn’t surprised to see his flatmate in the exact same position as he had been when John had left. John should have been used to it, realized what he had asked for when engaging in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, but something in the back of his mind still made it feel odd that he was leaving his partner’s presence without an embrace or kiss. It felt even more odd that he was leaving his partner to potentially sleep with a stranger tonight, even if it was with Sherlock’s permission.

The party surprisingly took place at Greg’s home. “The wife’s gone for good this time. Took the kids too for the weekend, so I figured why waste the space on my boring, lonesome soul?” Greg quipped when John asked. A comfortable amount of people filled the rooms. Soft, alternative tunes came from the kitchen as John walked through. He was so used to the routine of events like this- introductions were to be made, then chatter, chatter, chatter, take a drink, laugh, chatter, chatter, drink, drink,drink, laugh, drink, and struggle to keep up an air of charm throughout the night. Or at least until everyone was too drunk to remember anything.

Was it Sherlock? Was it the natural guilt he felt? Whatever it was, John felt the night blur until he suddenly found himself leaned against a wall with a full glass of something weighing down his hand.

John blinked. Had he even spoken a word since Greg let him in? He look at the sea of unfamiliar faces spread around him. Everyone seemed too engaged in their own conversations and groups to notice.

“Not much of a drinker, I’m guessing?”

John’s eyes snapped over to those of a young woman, smiling and pointing at his cup, “Not trying to be creepy, but I think you’ve held that in your hand for a good forty minutes. Brilliant impersonation of a statue if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

“Ha, no I wasn’t trying to be anything... Tough day. At work,” John laughed nervously, wiping his hand on his trousers before holding it out to shake, “John Watson.”

The woman took his hand and shook it firmly, “Diana Simons. You sound familiar. I think Sally’s mentioned you before.

John’s smile faded slightly, “You’re a friend of Sally’s?” Was she here as well? John was sure he remembered her shrill voice questioning him about The Freak’s whereabouts.

“Well, I wouldn’t say friend. Acquaintance is good. ‘Mentor’ is probably a better word for her.”

John felt himself relax, “You’re a new cadet then?”

“Not new new, I wouldn’t say that either,” Diana giggled, “Oh god, listen to me. I suppose there’s a lot of things I wouldn’t say tonight.”

John chuckled with her, already feeling the drink become lighter in his hand, “I don’t mind at all. It’s a good trait to want to set things straight.”

“I guess it is,” The warm grin returned across Diana’s face, “So, back to my first query- you’re not having anything to drink?”

“Oh. Well, this,” John peered inside the cup, “I honestly can’t even remember picking it up. I don’t know why I did. I haven’t really been in the mood for a drink for quite a while.” He held it out to her, “Would you like...?”

“Oh, I’m fine! I’ve never been much of a drinker either. Never found the appeal of it, I’m one of those people,” Diana giggled again, giving a small snort that made John smile.

 _This is nice. You’re talking to a person. An uncomplicated, average, ordinary person. No superiority. Just talking._ John tilted his head to one of the empty sofas in the living room, “Would you like to sit with me?”

“Definitely, sure. Do you mind if we take the basement instead?” Diana eyed the room, “It’s just that I’ve seen enough of these faces that I feel like if I don’t get a break from them I might crack.”

“I’m familiar with that feeling,” John pushed off the wall and followed Diana down to the basement. The lights flickered on when she turned the switch, revealing a ratty sofa, coffee table scattered with newspapers, and stacks upon stacks of boxes packed against the walls. Greg probably spent a lot of time here during his last few days with the wife, John thought as he sat on the graying cushions. Sherlock could probably write a book of deductions on the room by now...

“So,” Diana sat down as John placed his cup on top of the table, “How do you know Greg? It’s that cheesy? Oh god, that is, isn’t it?”

John grinned, “Trying to chat me up, are you? Or are you genuinely interested?”

“I definitely am! Or maybe it’s both. Interpret it as you like.”

“Dear lord, I think I could almost hear the wink in your tone.”

“Just answer the question!” Diana laughed again.

“Touche. Alright, but it’s kind of obscure. I’m kind of an assistant to a consultant of Greg’s?"

She looked at John quizzically, “I’ve heard about that whole ‘consultant’ thing around the Yard. Who is that?”

“Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

“...you’re kidding.”

A corner of John’s mouth lifted up, “You have, then? Insufferable prat eighty percent of the time, but has an absolutely brilliant mind when he decides to use it the right way.”

“He solved that one murder with the cabbie and pills, yeah? What were people calling it again- A Study in Pink?”

“That’s him, and that title is actually from my blog.”

“Your blog...Oh god, I’m such an idiot! You’re Doctor John Watson!” Diana beamed. She touched John’s wrist, “You realize you two are the tall tales of Scotland Yard, right? I hear about your cases constantly! Though Sally tends to call Mr Holmes by other, less remarkable names.” Her eyes remained on John, though her nervousness could easily be seen in the clench of her jaw.

“I’m aware of what she calls him.” _And the fact that you haven’t moved your fingers away yet._ What was he doing? John told himself this was a much needed break. Sherlock proposed he relieve his frustration on other people. But.. could he? On just some rather flirtatious girl at a small police get-together? Would that really cure it all? John exhaled quietly and moved his fingers over hers, “Thanks for your appreciation though-”

****

“Is this alright?” Diana suddenly said. He eyes flicked down to their hands. “I mean, there have been rumors that you and Sherlock were...”

John inhaled again and smiled, “I...wouldn’t believe everything floating around in the Yard. For one, I’m sure Anderson doesn’t have a real dinosaur fetish.”

Diana chuckled. John touched her cheek with his other hand, her eyes moving back up to him. Jesus. Just that small interaction reminded John of the things that he’ll never have in his relationship. His thumb automatically began to move lightly over her skin, “This is alright.”

It was shocking how quickly Diana’s mouth had pressed against  his own at those words, or how soft he remembered lips could be. He readjusted his hands to the sides of her body as Diana pushed him down on the sofa. Soft. The kiss was rushed and desperate. The tip of her tongue met John’s in less than a few seconds, emitting a small gasp from him. God, _this -_ this is what he remembered. What he missed.

Her hands framed John’s cheeks before sliding down to his shirt buttons. She pulled back and huffed, “Is this too fast?”

“No, no, it’s, ah, fine,” John let go of her as she removed his shirt and leant back down to kiss right below his ear. “Oh...”

She smiled against his skin before licking a light trail down to his collarbone and nibbling it. “You taste nice.”

John couldn’t do much else but laugh. His hands returned on her sides and dragged the end of her shirt up.

“Not yet. Let’s focus on you first, okay?” Diana kissed across his collarbone before sliding down and surprising John with a warm tongue swiping over his nipple.

“Ah, shit.”

Diana smirked before placing her mouth over it, playing his his other nipple with her hand. She breathed, “I find it unfair girls think we’re the only one who like to be teased a bit. Good?”

John rolled his head back against the armrest, “Fucking fantastic.”

“Good,” Diana closed her eyes as she kissed across his chest to the other pink, budding nipple being toyed with her fingers.

“You’re going to kill me,” John nearly cried as Diana’s knee began rubbing against his crotch.

“Not a very clever thing for me to do with the police upstairs,” she quipped.

John raised his hands back to her face and pulled her down for another kiss, “Mm, ‘fraid not. Your turn.” Diana let John sit up and push her on her back, eyes watching him expectantly.

He looked down at her. Short, dark brown bangs feathered over her green eyes. Cheeks flush. Body open, angled up towards John. It was a moment like _this_ that John missed. Craved.

_To see a brilliant, legendary man look at me like that..._

John pulled Diana’s shirt off and she snapped her bra off for him, “Wouldn’t want you to have to fuss with the thing.”

John kissed her chastely in appreciation before moving his mouth down to her neck. Parting his lips, he guided his tongue in light, wet strokes up it- causing stunned moans. He could already hear her breathing begin to quicken. He kissed a row down to her collar and cupped her breasts.

“Oh fuck, John,” she gasped.

John smiled up at her before bending down and licking her hardening nipples and sucking. Her body jerked and a high whimper came from above him. “Bite it a little.”

John’s teeth pressed down gently, making her jump again. Her hands rested his his shoulders. The breathing became heavier.

He looked up at her, “Mind if I travel lower?”

“Jesus. Fuck. Please,” Diana’s eyes remained closed.

John traced the skin down her stomach. He undid her fly and stuck a hand inside. Shit, her panties were soaked. She rolled her hips to reach his rubbing fingertips against her clitoris.

“Please, John.”

The desperation heard in his name pooled warmly in his stomach as John slipped the jeans off her legs and returned to rubbing her mons. “Is this good?”

“Ha, taking the piss are you?” Diana laughed breathlessly.

John pressed harder against the soaked fabric, “Wasn’t aware. Apologies.” He glanced up at her predatorily and removed her underwear. His fingers trailed down her slit, coating in the fluid before slipping back up and massaging her clit. Diana banged her head back, “Shit!”

He hunched over more, moving his face to her inner thigh and kissing the skin there, then licking a strip at the crook of her crotch.

“Ahh!” She yelped.

John lazily watched his fingers made small circles before sliding one back down and teasing her hole as he took a tentative lick at the side of her clit. Hands suddenly grabbed his hand and pushed him into her crotch- “God, yes, yes!”

He pushed a finger inside and created a slow rhythm as he continued to swipe and tease her with his tongue. The fingers grew tighter before John pulled back and whispered, “I want to put two in now. Is that okay?” Fuck, he must look completely debauched. His lips slick and just inches away from a previous stranger’s vagina. Quite the sight to see an ex-army doctor in.

Diana exhaled harshly, “Oh, please, yes, do it!”

John watched as he added another finger and built up another rhythm before he placed his lips back on her. Her body quivered at his mouth when he began crooking his fingers and making small circles on the upper wall inside of her.

“Oh, oh, that’s perfect- faster!”

He let himself become lost in the patterns he was creating simultaneously while her sound became louder and more erratic. Diana lifted her legs and wrapped them around his head, aiding her hands in pushing John further against her crotch. The rhythm soon progressed to hard fucking with his fingers until a sharp, “Stop!” halted John entirely.

He wiped his mouth and looked up at glassed-over green eyes.

“...I want you to fuck me."

John repositioned himself. He could feel the redness flush across his chest. His fingers automatically went to his fly, hurriedly pulling himself out and moving his trousers off. A condom was found in his pocket, but ripping the packet was interrupted by a pair of warm lips engulfing his cock.

Diana stand up with her hands at the back of John’s legs, licking and suckling at the pre-come forming steadily at his head. “Christ...” John whimpered.

“Mm,” She popped his head out of her mouth, trailing her tongue up his shaft and smiling wickedly, “ I thought I could recuperate a bit.”

Hot, moist air was on John’s balls before each was suck gently into Diana’s mouth. She took the condom from his hand and tore it, rolling it onto his cock and leaning back down.

“Well?”

“I think you really are trying to kill me.”

Diana giggled and spread her legs wider, “Anytime now.”

“Again- touche,” John moved back, his fingers brushing down her slit prior to him aligning his cock and pushing inside slowly.

“Oh!” Both voices groaned. Jesus fucking Christ. John pushed deeper until Diana reached and placed a hand on his stomach, “That’s perfect- now fuck me.”

He really didn’t need to be told twice. His pace gradually increased as he mainly focused on Diana’s whines of approval. His fingers returned to making small, quick circles around her clit as he fucked her. John watched Diana’s closed eyes and head thrown back as she stifled her moans.

She choked on a whimper, “I’m close! Keep hitting there! It’s perfect, perfect, per- OH! FUCK!” John could feel her body shake and tighten around him as he rode through her orgasm, bringing him close to his own. He went faster after that, and closed his eyes as he finally felt a rush, and then release.

“Christ.”

Diana laughed wearily as John pulled himself out. He took off the condom and looked at her with a delirious grin, “Well then.”

“Well then."

John grabbed a scrap of newspaper and wrapped the tied-off condom, “That conversation may have escalated quickly.”

Diana let out another chuckle- a sound John was finding endearing. “I think we got to the main point that we were both aiming for.”

John pulled the waistband of his pants back up and picked his trousers off from the floor. He handed Diana her jeans and shirt from the foot of the sofa, “I suppose so.”

They dressed in silence, agreeing that John should dispose of the condom upstairs before Diana followed. John pressed another chaste kiss upon Diana’s lips before he left and whispered, “It was truly nice to meet you. Take care.”

She waved goodbye as John wandered upstairs, away from what he had given up and back towards reality with Sherlock.

His body felt like it had been filled with air. John had used Sherlock’s permission to finally get what he had wanted. What he originally wanted to hear, feel, taste from an extraordinary consulting detective had been substituted by a young, bright-eyed cadet. He had gotten to spend a moment with someone who truly wanted to touch him, who didn’t insult him and see him as an idiot. An equal. Someone who actually gave him respect, who didn’t look at him like he was garbage. John had been spared the infamous condescending glare Sherlock had grown accustomed to giving him every day without hesitation. The one that shouted at John that he was an idiot and that he’d never understand. The look that secretly burned John harshly each time.

Maybe John was an actual idiot and could never understand Sherlock-

_And I don’t think you ever will._

-but John had satisfied his frustration, which is exactly what Sherlock would want to hear. It would benefit both of them

Wouldn’t it?

***

Sherlock had chosen to ignore John after he came home, but regretted it almost immediately after the doctor left; what sort of partner was he if he couldn’t even manage a simple pleasantry? He attempted to concentrate on the slides in front of him ( _Staphyloccocus epidermis_ from his navel), but they seemed dull and inactive after his day at the morgue.

He got up and ambled over to the long leather sofa, the one he’d stolen from Mycroft as soon as he’d been given the opportunity, and settled down on it, picking up the book of cold cases that Molly had given him. Maybe he would be able to do _something_ interesting. Checking the clock, Sherlock realized that John hadn’t texted him at all yet, not even a customary ‘I’m at the party’ or ‘This is boring’ message. John liked parties, to an extent; he enjoyed talking to people and learning about their perspectives, this much Sherlock knew, but for him to be enjoying something so much that he wouldn’t even text?

Sherlock shook his head and tried to delete the thought, but found that he couldn’t. Something was going on with John, something happening _right now_ , something that Sherlock wished he hadn’t given permission for. What had John Watson done to him?  He was starting to think like those idiot girls on television and in ladies’ magazines, always waiting, being ridiculously clotty about their boyfriends. _Stupid, stupid._ He rubbed his eyes.

He put his dark head on the soft armrest at the end of the sofa. No need to get so sentimental about unnecessary things. Perhaps he should lie down, just for a bit. There wasn’t anything else to do, and John always wanted Sherlock to fix his sleeping schedule anyway..

_“What?!” asked Sherlock angrily._

_“No, she’s so amazing and look, this is the hair product she uses, it smells perfect, like the forest and mountains,” John pressed a bottle into his long fingers._

_“John, what are you going on about?! I don’t want this!” he dropped the bottle onto the floor, where it bounced a few times before landing next to John’s feet._

_“Don’t you want to smell wonderful?” John picked up the bottle and looked at Sherlock as though puzzled by his outburst._

_“If it means smelling like the forest and the mountains, no, I’d rather not!”_

_“And she has this perfume? And her toothpaste - oh, we have to buy her toothpaste, it’s perfect and her teeth are so white!”_

_“I don’t care!!” Sherlock exclaimed, but John continued to prattle on about lotions and makeup and skin care routines._

_“I DO NOT CARE!” Sherlock yelled. John blinked._

Sherlock gasped awake and almost fell off of the sofa. “What was that?” he muttered to himself, stretching and checking the time on his phone. Still no texts from John. It was quite late, later than John liked to stay awake; no doubt he would be sleeping off his hangover. Well, Sherlock hoped he was only sleeping.

 

****

John woke up on Greg’s sofa with a small hiss of breath.

“Finally you’re awake,” Greg stepped in the room with two cups of coffee, “I was almost tempted to call the boyfriend to come and take you.”

John sat up and blinked as he took a cup, “Sorry, I knew you didn’t plan an all-nighter. When did the others leave?”

“Around the time you decided to sit down and ‘rest your eyes’. Maybe an hour or so after coming back up with Diana.” Greg grinned as he sat down next to John, “Congratulations, mate. She’s a cute one. Did Sherlock and you decide to keep it open or...”

“Kind of,” John yawned, scratching his head and checking his pocket for his phone. “...honestly, I have no idea what’s happening with us. Or me specifically. I’ve never done anything like that before. Hell, I barely even said goodbye to her. I was just so... caught up in it all...”

Greg nodded, taking a sip from his coffee, “I get it. Well, I mean, not directly. But... there have been times before where me and the wife felt miles apart from each other. I dealt with it by daydreaming, sometimes of other women, and felt guilty about it. She decided to take the hands-on approach with other men.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. That was ages ago. Anyway, are you heading home now?”

John pulled on his phone and checked the screen. No messages from Sherlock. He sucked in his breath. This mess he was in. “I think that’d be the best idea right now.”

Greg stood up as John did, “I’ll text Sherlock any details about the case we get today.”

John finished his cup quickly, wincing at the burning fluid on his tongue before nodding at Greg and heading for the door, “Sounds good. Thanks for having me, really, Greg.” He stopped and awkwardly held out the cup, “Sorry- almost took this with me.”

Greg laughed and took the cup, “Oi, slow down there. It’s okay, I know the place you’re in. And John, if you ever need to talk about, you kno-” His phone suddenly buzzed. Greg pulled it out and read the text, “Oh shit, we’ve got another one.”

“Where?”

“Regent’s Park. Near water- a little boy this time. Beheaded like the others. It’s the same maniac. I need to leave,” Greg placed the cups down the coffee table and snatched his coat from its rack. “Do you want to-”

“Come along? Thought it’d be obvious by now.”

“Sorry, I just figured you wanted fix things with Sherlock. I’ll text him as we go.”

“If he’s not there already.”

Greg smiled before opening the door, “The jumpy bastard.”

****

“Drowned. This one’s been drowned,” said Donovan as soon as Sherlock darted out of the cab, pulling the police tape up and frowning at the other officers who were milling around.

“Good day to you as well,” Sherlock smirked. She was obviously too shocked by the body to pull out any of his various nicknames, “Drowned? Interesting. Why the change in modus operandi?”

Donovan shrugged, pulling the ends of her jacket closer to her body and trudging over to the body, Sherlock close behind.

“Still beheaded,” Sherlock rolled on his gloves and bent down to poke at the unnaturally pale body, feeling the softness of waterlogged skin, “Drowned first, obviously,” he examined the neck, finding very faint marks, “Held down at the throat, fascinating.”

Donovan sighed, “You better catch this one.”

He rose and pulled off his gloves, “All of the bodies have been found either in the early morning or in the evening, therefore the killer’s on some sort of schedule, probably for work. This one,” he pointed at the body, “is different from the rest in mode of death, obviously, a complete turn from the poisoning of earlier, it was held down-”

Donovan interrupted, “He. He was held down.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock continued, “He was held down, at the throat. This is personal. Focus on this one, even if most of the outer evidence has been washed away.”

“So Freak, why would someone do this to a child?” asked Donovan, sitting down gingerly in the grass. Sherlock wryly noted the return of his nickname.

“No idea. It’s probably not at the child, it can’t be a personal vengeance on the child it-himself. No, it’ll be focused on the parents. We need to find the identity of this one, as soon as possible.”

“I see you already made yourself at home,” Greg lifted the police tape with John close behind. He glanced down, “Anything on the body?”

“Freak here says the drowned boy was decapitated afterwards and that it was a personal attack,” Donovan crossed her arms.

Sherlock nodded, “None of the others have been drowned, they’ve all been poisoned; impersonal and it gets the job done.”

“Why would anyone choose Regent Park to kill a boy?” John asked, staring at the small body.

Sherlock turned, face momentarily displaying shock before smoothing over again. He had thought John would have gone back to the flat, waited for them to talk, “We don’t know if he was killed here or somewhere else. We only know the body was dumped here,” Sherlock nudged the corpse’s arm with his foot, “rather unceremoniously. However, the killer obviously needed it gone from wherever he was.”

“Could be a she,” Donovan said quietly.

“Or she, and they didn’t want to make a mess of it so they kill the victims first, then behead them - the beheading, that’s the final step.”

“What do you think the killer does with the heads? I don’t understand, why have them in good condition? Do you think it’s some type of collector?” Greg asked.

“If the killer is taking trophies, it would be much easier to take one body part - fingers, toes, eyeballs, tongues - anything would be easier than having to chop off the head, and the cuts at the neck, they’re choppy. This killer seems to be disorganized, leaving the bodies in various spots, not really knowing what they’re doing - they’re not getting any enjoyment out of it. He needs the heads, but we don’t know why. And this body, the head wouldn’t have been in as good condition as the others. Why would the killer switch to a new method, when the heads seem to be the most important part?”

Donovan twitched. Lestrade scratched at his ear. Sherlock paced, purposely not making eye contact with John.

“Fine, nothing else to be done here, I’m going to go research. I’ll text if I come up with anything,” Sherlock said finally, and turned on his heel, leaving the others behind.

“Wait, Sherlock!” John glanced apologetically at Greg before dashing after the tall detective.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock walked briskly, not pausing for the doctor to catch up.

John reached Sherlock just as he hailed a cab, “Are you not speaking to me now?”

Sherlock turned, narrowing his eyes, “I haven’t quite decided yet.”

John blinked, “You haven’t decided.”

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock informed the driver, “How was the party?”

John climbed in the backseat, “It was good. Sorry, I never texted. I meant to, but I wasn’t sure if I was disturbing anything important. That experiment seemed like it was taking a lot of your time.” He dared a glance at Sherlock.

“Hmm...yes, I suppose so,” Sherlock stared out the window, watching the city roll by.

“What were you working on? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Looking at bodily bacteria, to compare it under different lights and temperatures. It might be helpful with the case - not the most recent body, but the previous ones at least.”

“How so? Do you think the poison was bacterial?” John turned his body towards Sherlock. He felt guilty for some reason. He didn’t know exactly why, but felt the easiest way to apologize was through showing interest in the only thing Sherlock seemed to truly care about.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock glared for a moment, “We know the poison was cyanide, toxicology reports showed that. This’ll be for when the children were transported, and hopefully it’ll be able to inform where they came from.” Why was John acting so ignorant and carefree all of a sudden? They had just returned from a crime scene that would, at the very least, be considered mildly upsetting by John, but here he was, acting as though nothing was happening.

“Okay then,” John turned to the window. His phone buzzed and he clicked on the screen.

_Hey, John! I hope you don’t mind that I asked Greg for your number last night. Hopefully this isn’t creepy to you haha. Just wanted to say last night was FANTASTIC. Text me if you can : ) - Diana_

Warmth filled John’s cheeks. He felt his fingers hover over the keys. He definitely wasn’t expecting to hear from her again. She actually made an effort to find him. Did he stumble into having a casual fuck buddy? Was this what he needed at the moment? Diana was a nice, beautiful woman, and she deserved more than a short goodbye. And John admitted that he would like to see her again. All the better for Sherlock, right?

Oh hello. :) It’s not creepy at all. I’m glad you got my number. I’d definitely have to agree with you about last night- you were AMAZING. Maybe we could plan something similar down the line?- JW

“Who’s that?” Sherlock asked suddenly, looking inquisitively at the phone’s screen. It was bizarre for John to get texts at this hour, if ever, that weren’t from Sherlock himself.

“What?” John’s head snapped to him before instinctively clicking off his phone’s screen. “Nothing important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a short one; life's been kind of crazy lately - another chapter will be coming VERY soon!


	5. Chapter 5

It had been two weeks since the last crime scene and the first text received from Diana. John felt torn. The controlled environment of Greg’s basement soon grew into something that he was quickly losing control of. It was obvious that Sherlock was giving John his version of the cold shoulder, and it scalded him. Their conversations reduced at home into quick greetings and acknowledgements during passings. John knew it wasn’t odd for a relationship to fizzle down to periods like this, hell, they practically were acting like an old married couple who were long beyond being sick of each other. Though he knew that they at least would leave short pecks of lips or schedule at least some type of romantic endeavor to “spice things up”. No luck with that though. John sighed, clicking his phone shut and putting it on the arm of his chair. Sherlock went to the mortuary hours ago. It was sad that John practically felt like he was purposely avoiding him now- afraid of facing his icy stare with unfamiliar anger behind them. John hated feeling wrong- well, not in general, but to Sherlock. He hated being the source of his aggravation, especially since he had enough to deal with in the world. But was John even wrong? Sherlock has told him it was okay. But was he too quick? Fuck, did Sherlock even mean it?

John rubbed his eyes. He traded shifts with Sarah today to met Diana at the flat. Christ, skivving work to get laid. Was he suddenly eighteen years younger? No wonder Sherlock hated him. He could barely keep a hold of anything in their lives anymore. And for what? What’s so important? John remembered Sherlock asking him that once. It was ridiculous to be led from the trousers to the point of it corroding his work and relationship. He had met Diana four times already between his flat and hers. Four times. Different scenarios. Kinks. Powerplays. It was almost like John was addicted to know what she liked, what she wanted, and if meetings with her is what he wanted. Did loving Sherlock and lusting after her have to interconnect?

It was just... Was seeking the physicality he wanted from Sherlock ruining more than it was saving?

His phone dinged.

_Anybody home? I’m at the door. I think the buzzer’s broken. Let a girl in? ;)_

John flicked open his keyboard. ‘Course. You brought the blindfold and cuffs, yeah?

_You’ll see when you come downstairs._

John got up from his chair and went downstairs. Thank god Mrs. Hudson went out already. Diana smiled with a bag behind her back, “Took you long enough.”

John laughed, “Come on up. You really didn’t have to wear a dress that short to impress me, you’ll catch a cold.”

Diana took his hand as they went upstairs, “I’ll try not to sneeze on you too much.”

Meetings with Diana always began abruptly since neither person enjoyed beating around the main reason why they were in each other’s company. Sometimes John felt crude though, he liked to think he wasn’t using her solely for sex. But he knew he saw their encounters as nothing more and there was no need to fix that.

This time, John decided to make things a bit different by having Diana sit on the couch as he prepared glasses of wine.

“Doctor Watson, are you trying to court me?” Diana said smugly.

“Take it however you want, Madame,” John placed the glasses on the cleanest trays he could find. His phone suddenly rang. The screen said Sherlock. Shit.

John gulped before pressing accept,  “Sherlock? Hey, what’s going on? Anything up with the case?”

“Hello, and yes, I need to interview the parents of the latest victim and I would like your assistance.”

“Oh, no, I can’t make it.” John balanced the tray on his forearm as he walked into the living room. He mouthed ‘work’ at  Diana. She smirked and took a glass.

“Why. Not.? Are you doing anything particularly...important?”

“Um...no, I’m with Mike at the moment actually-” John sat down. He could feel the sweat building under his armpits.

“Oh, Mike? Really? This morning you said you were at the surgery.”

“I changed shifts with Sarah, I thought I told you- Look Sherlock, I-”

Diana’s expression turned into confusion. She whispered, “Sherlock? I thought your boss’s name was Sarah.”

Sherlock’s tone became curious, “Who’s that? Are you with someone right now?”

Shit. John tapped his foot on the ground rapidly as he thought up an excuse, “Um- N- I’m with Mike at the pub. It’s crowded.”

“No, that was obviously a woman’s voice, I haven’t heard a man’s voice; in fact, I don’t hear the usual chatter of pub patrons or glasses clinking, so you’re alone, with a woman.”

Diana’s look only intensified on John as his hand began to shake, “Sherlock-”

“Obviously if you intend to keep lying about your whereabouts then I won’t disturb you since they happen to be far more important than a murder case, and me. Have a good evening.” The call ended.

John’s hand couldn’t bring the phone down from his ear.

“John?” Diana put her glass on the coffe table and touched his shoulder lightly, “Are you alright? What happened?"

John shook his head from his trance and put the phone back in his pocket. He could almost hear his own heart pounding against his chest. Calm down. Now’s not the time. Not in front of her. He smiled,  “Nothing. Trouble with shift changes. Nothing to worry about. Let’s go upstairs, shall we?” He took her hand and allowed his legs to move with a carefully empty mind.

****

Sherlock paced as Molly watched warily, “I just don’t know what’s going on with him!”

“Sorry, with who?”

“John, obviously! Pay attention! Who did you think I was talking about?”

“Wha- but you hadn’t said anything for the past hour!” Molly stammered.

“Oh, hadn’t I? Well, he’s been off doing I don’t even know what with - I don’t even know who with, and he hasn’t been telling me anything so how should I know what’s going on with his life? And besides, I’m busy with the case and if he was acting normal then he would be here with me right now but instead he’s ‘at surgery’ but I know his schedule and I know he doesn’t have any shifts for today! He’s being an idiot,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked down at his microscope, waiting for Molly to respond, wanting her to help solve his ridiculous relationship problems.

“Oh! Already having married-couple problems are we?” Molly joked, but quickly continued at the glare given to her by Sherlock, “Have you two tried talking? Maybe John feels just as disconnected as you. Oh, I know! There’s this lovely relationship column Mrs. Hudson showed me in the paper at Speedy’s- maybe try some of their advice? Surprise him at work, or something. ”

Sherlock let out a noise of disgust, “Never mind! Wrong person to talk to, obviously,” he frowned at the lab tests in front of him, “Do we know the identity of the final victim yet?”

“Er...yeah,” shuffling through a stack of papers, Molly pulled one out, “Maxwell Crawford, age eight, parents are Cara and Henry Crawford - dad’s quite famous, he’s a toymaker.”

“Toymaker? Fascinating...we’ll have to interview the parents soon. I’ll need John for this, I suppose,” Sherlock picked up his phone and pressed _John Watson_.

“Sherlock? Hey, what’s going on? Anything up with the case?”

“Hello, and yes, I need to interview the parents of the latest victim and I would like your assistance.”

“Oh, no, I can’t make it.” John rushed.

“Why. Not.? Are you doing anything particularly...important?"

“Um...no, I’m with Mike at the moment actually-”

“Oh, Mike? Really? This morning you said you were at the surgery," he put on a faux-curious tone. John was obviously lying, again.

“I changed shifts with Sarah, I thought I told you- Look Sherlock, I-” A woman’s voice sounded in the background.

“Who’s that? Are you with someone right now?”

“Um- N- I’m with Mike at the pub. It’s crowded.”

“No, that was obviously a woman’s voice, I haven’t heard a man’s voice; in fact, I don’t hear the usual chatter of pub patrons or glasses clinking, so you’re alone, with a woman,” Sherlock rattled off.

“Sherlock-"

“Obviously if you intend to keep lying about your whereabouts then I won’t disturb you since they happen to be far more important than a murder case, and me. Have a good evening,” Sherlock clicked off the call.

Two weeks. That's the amount of time it had taken for John's behavior to change so drastically that he wouldn't come to cases with Sherlock. Two weeks in which he had found someone else to have sexual relations with - someone who seemed to be far more important to John than Sherlock himself. At this point, would he still consider John as his partner? 

"What's happened?" Molly tried gently to Sherlock's arm, but he pulled away quickly.

"It doesn't matter."

 


End file.
